


Spilling in Through The Silence

by BulletBlaze



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Because fuck canon, Comforting Derek, First Kiss, Getting Together, I'm not a doctor, M/M, Medical Conditions, Medical Inaccuracies, Post-Canon, Sheriff Stilinski Ships It, Sheriff Stilinski is a Good Parent, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Supportive Sheriff Stilinski, Well - Freeform, chiari malformation, more like post 3b, possible, syringomyelia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 19:01:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15177236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BulletBlaze/pseuds/BulletBlaze
Summary: Where the calming quiet should have been ready to greet him- to drag him into a blessed state of unawareness- a persistent ringing met him instead.It was loud and it was shrill and it filled his head like an overinflated balloon.And it wouldn't go away.Stiles cried that night. Sobbed into the dark with wide open eyes and a running nose and the ringing only grew louder with the strain.He just wanted it to be quiet.





	Spilling in Through The Silence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stereks_fifth_nipple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stereks_fifth_nipple/gifts).



> For stereks_fifth_nipple because they said something really nice and I love their works and they kind of unconsciously inspired me to finally finish this fucker.  
> Anyway.  
> Hey, hey, howdy- it's been a while.  
> I have mixed feelings about this. More about that that will be in the below notes.  
> Title is from "The Emotion" by Borns, which is a beautiful song.  
> This bitch ain't edited. So good luck.  
> I hope you kind of enjoy..

Stiles forgot what silence sounded like a long time ago.

He remembered when he was younger- around junior high- how he would love to sit and listen to music for hours. Sometimes on the radio, sometimes on an old CD; sometimes letting it trickle through the air from across the room, sometimes blaring it directly into his brain. He would forget what the quiet was, forget how lonely it made him feel, until his head couldn't focus on anything but the music, draining everything else out. Then, he would turn it off. Unplug the radio, shake the headphones from his ears, and then the music would be gone, too. Everything would be gone, and all that was left was the quiet. Absolutely nothing ran through his mind in those moments. He could simply exist without the burden of distraction, of guilt, of responsibility, of grief. For those few moments, Stiles was completely alone, but he didn't feel lonely. He felt at peace, as though his dad wasn't working another double and his mom was still alive and that orange bottle on his window sill was filled with sugar pills. 

In those moments, nothing could touch him.

That was around that same time that Stiles noticed something strange happening. A numbness creeping down his neck, pooling in a small pond at the top of his back. He didn't mention it to his dad- the sheriff was busy enough as it was- and it wasn't exactly harming him, anyway.

So, he let it be. Even as it slowly grew to the size of his fist, even as it began to itch under his skin. Even as his fingernails couldn't scratch hard enough to make it go away, to make him even feel them digging too deep into his skin. Even as he fantasized through math class about stabbing a knife through his back, just to get the itching to go away.

He didn't mention it, and eventually it got better. A year later, the itching had stopped and numbness was commonplace, and not just in his back. He prided himself in pushing through it on his own.

Sophomore year of high school slowly rolled upon him, and suddenly he didn't have time to listen to music anymore. Between helping Scott and helping Derek and helping his dad, helping everyone, even if they didn't know it, Stiles eventually found a new peace- a peace that came through his friends. Through his pack. Group outings with Scott, Allison, and Lydia helped him forget that his dad hadn't slept in their house in two days. Bickering with Boyd as Erica and Isaac dragged them through the mall temporarily covered the hole in his heart left by his mother. Late night researching with Derek that slowly yet inevitably devolved into watching the latest episode of whatever show was on that night never failed to stop his mind from running off without him.

Stiles felt settled. Content.

And then, of course, everything changed.

New baddies came to town, people died, Stiles lost control of his body and mind, more people died, his dad was gone more than ever, the hole in his heart grew larger, that orange bottle became a lifeline.

Nothing was okay, and Stiles was losing it.

He didn't have the courage to hang out with Scott and Lydia without Allison, he and Derek didn't have time to let the research wait for reruns of Buffy, Erica and Boyd and Isaac were all gone. 

The summer after junior year, Stiles started listening to music again. In the hours he should have been sleeping but couldn't in fear of nightmares or evil spirits or unavoidable guilt, he would plug in his headphones and hit shuffle. The music would take him away for a while, but then it would get to be too much. The first time Stiles stopped the music, he waited with heavy breathing as he slipped the headphones off and onto the table next to his bed, waiting for the silence to envelop him like it did all those years ago. 

Except it didn't.

Where the calming quiet should have been ready to greet him- to drag him into a blessed state of unawareness- a persistent ringing met him instead.

It was loud and it was shrill and it filled his head like an overinflated balloon.

And it wouldn't go away. 

He stayed awake for hours more, listening to the noise, trying to discern if it was more like ringing or buzzing, and eventually came to the conclusion that it was both, overlapping and intertwining and slowly driving him insane.

As if he hadn't had enough of that in the past year.

Stiles cried that night. Sobbed into the dark with wide open eyes and a running nose and the ringing only grew louder with the strain.

He just wanted it to be quiet.

The next day, Stiles got out of bed feeling like a heavy weight was sitting on his chest. And his back. And his brain. He couldn't decide if it was the lack of sleep or something else.

A few weeks passed, senior year began, and the ringing hadn't gone away. It still filled his head every time things were quiet, and he couldn't tell if the noise in his ears while in the library was more or less distracting than the chattering of students in study hall.

His grades steadily declined.

Not by much. A’s became B’s and B’s became B-’s. It wouldn't destroy his GPA, but it did knock him from 2nd in his class.

No one noticed, though. His dad was still working overtime and his friends were still grieving and Derek still couldn't care less about his grades. So he suffered in silence (ha, he wished) for months. 

The ringing became almost like background noise. Always there, but he could forget. Tune it out for a while.

But once he noticed it, he couldn't seem to  _ stop  _ noticing it. And the more he noticed it, the more intense it got, until he felt like his ears would burst and a sharp pain stabbed at the front and back of his skull, and Stiles wondered if this was how Lydia felt.

Derek was sitting next to him on the couch at his loft one evening when their hands brushed. Derek turned to face him, eyebrows slightly drawn, and asked, “Are you in pain?”

However, used to it, Stiles had simply replied, “Just a headache,” and dropped the conversation. 

(That hadn't stopped Derek from softly gripping the back of his neck and pulling the sharp twinge into himself until it was nothing more than a dull throb. Stiles had shrugged him off, but not before sighing and thanking the man.)

Life fell back into a routine, although this one was much less fulfilling than those previous. That contentedness he had felt just a year prior felt lifetimes away, and he couldn't remember what happy peace was anymore. Just dull, aggravating, tiresome idleness. 

He missed the quiet.

But he got used to the noise, and that was what mattered. Because if it didn't bother him too much (it did) he wouldn't feel guilty for not mentioning it to anyone- especially his dad.

He was with Derek again, as they had found themselves such lately, sitting on the couch and reading through the bestiary when a slight tickle brushed across the skin of his upper back. Stiles absently rubbed his back against the couch cushions behind him, trying and failing to get rid of it. He wiggled more, pushing his shoulders back and shoving himself further into the couch, but to no avail. Finally, frustrated by the incessant itch, Stiles threw his arm over his shoulder and began scratching, expecting it to finally go away.

Only, it didn't. Stiles couldn't even feel his fingers against his skin, and he was suddenly thrown back to seventh grade algebra, daydreaming about saws tearing his flesh to shreds.

Stiles suppressed a groan and dug his fingers in deeper, even slipping them under the fabric of his shirt. However, aside from a light pressure, the feeling barely registered.

He noticed Derek noticing and tried to suppress the itch, moving his hand back in his lap. The feeling persisted and Stiles’ breathing started to come quicker as it slowly drove him crazy.

Then Derek’s fingers were there, scrubbing back and forth. Stiles appreciated the effort, but it was useless.

“Thanks,” he mumbled anyway.

He knew there was a grimace on his face, but he just couldn't make it go away, too focused on not letting his fingers crawl back up his spine and dig in deep.

Stiles, through the strength of the Lord above, managed to get through the rest of the night without asking Derek to whip out his claws. But just barely.

School continued, the threats continued, the ringing continued, and now the itching continued. It wasn't constant, coming and going for varied lengths of time, but it was enough to make him consider seeing a doctor.

That thought wasn't put into fruition until pack night almost two months later. Everyone was gathered at the Stilinski household, stuffing their faces with pizza and numbing their minds with Netflix.

The inane scratching was habit by that point, and Stiles didn't even realize his fingernails were pressed tightly against his back until Derek forcefully pulled his hand away.

“Hey! What are you-” Stiles yelled in surprised confusion as Derek yanked his shirt up to his neck. The whole pack was looking now, and Stiles flushed as he tried to shrug Derek’s hold off of his t-shirt. But Derek hung on and stopped his squirming with a firm hand to his shoulder. Soft fingers brushed over his skin, inspecting and rubbing and stretching.

“There's nothing there.”

“Wow,” Stiles drawled, finally tugging free. “Thank you for the astute observation, detective Sourwolf, now can we go back to the movie please?”

Derek’s brows drew together. “You've been itching at that spot for months. But there's no bite or rash or… anything.”

“Look, man, I don't know why it's so itchy, okay? It just is. But it's just an itch, it's not the end of the world.”

Derek didn't look satisfied in the least, but Stiles was done with this conversation. And so was the rest of the pack, if their heads turning back to the screen was any indication.

He thought they were done talking about it. That Derek would realize it didn't really matter and that he would drop it. That's what he was hoping for, at least. 

Sadly, Derek had become somewhat unpredictable over the years.

Everyone else had left- gone home to shower and sleep and do whatever else they did on weekend nights. But not Derek. Nope, Derek was in the kitchen with his dad.

“-can’t believe I forgot,” he heard his dad mumble.

“Forgot what?”

John’s head raised to face him with a look of guilt gleaming in his eyes, and Stiles could already tell that he wasn't going to like this conversation.

He sat down at the table and listened.

 

___

 

All in all, it actually wasn't that bad.

Nothing compared to his mom’s health problems or all the shit he'd been getting up to in the last handful of years of his life.

“Chiari Malformation”, his dad had started, and all of the sudden Stiles remembered things he hadn't thought of in years. Like the MRI’s when he was in second grade, or the surgery in fourth.

“You were born with some issues. Chiari being one of them, a tethered spinal cord being another. You got surgery for that when you were younger, I'm sure you remember.”

Stiles remembered he had gotten back surgery years ago, but the reasons were quickly overshadowed by his mother’s deteriorating health. The thick, three-inch surgical scar on his lower back had fascinated him when he was in grade school. Memories of showing Scott and feeling oddly smug when his friend “ooh’d” at its texture came to the forefront of his mind, and he couldn't help but smirk.

“The doctors said that syringomyelia often comes with Chiari, and since we never fixed your Chiari…”

The guilt was back in his father’s eyes, and Stiles didn't like it. He reached out and grabbed his dad’s hand, giving it a squeeze.

“Dad, it's okay. I'm not mad, there was a lot going on. It's not a big deal, anyway.”

The sheriff shook his head, lips pursing in frustration.

“They said to watch for the signs of syringo’ as you got older. Things like lowered sensitivity to extreme temperatures, numbness in the back, limbs suddenly falling asleep, things like that. And I just… I forgot. I forgot to look for them, and they've been staring me in the face.”

Derek cleared his throat and went to stand, saying, “I should let you guys-”

Stiles grabbed his wrist, asking him to stay with his eyes before his voice.

“It’s really not a big deal, Derek. Sit down?” 

After looking between Stiles and the sheriff a few times, Derek nodded and sat back down, albeit a bit awkwardly. 

“So,” Stiles began. “What do we do? What's the fix?”

The sheriff sighed. Stiles already knew he wasn't going to like this.

“Well, for most syringo’, it's a pretty simple back procedure. Drain the liquid, put in a shunt to keep the syrinx from filling up again…”

“But?” pressed Derek.

The man sighed again, heavier.

“When the syringo’ is caused by Chiari, they don't fix the syringo’. They fix the Chiari.”

A screech rang out as Stiles’ chair was pushed back and he jumped to his feet.

“Nope. No way. Thanks, but I'm good.”

Derek’s eyebrows pulled tight at Stiles’ frantic adamance as he tried to piece together these terms he didn't understand to create a situation he  _ could _ understand. It wasn't working very well.

“What is Chiari, exactly? How do you fix it?”

Stiles shifted on his feet restlessly.

“Well, it happens when your skull isn't large enough or shapely enough to contain your brain, which results in part of your cerebellum protruding down into the spinal canal-”

“Part of his brain is being squeezed down the back of his neck,” John interjected.

“Yeah, that.”

Derek nodded slowly. Humans were so prone to the weirdest shit. “And how do you fix it?” 

“Patients are monitored before they may decide to get either a laminectomy or a decompressive craniectomy-”

“Brain surgery.”

“Which Is what I am not going to do. No one is going near my brain. It's just some ringing and some itching, but do you know the risk factor for brain surgery? Any brain surgery, even something as simple as this, is too high a risk for me, thanks. I'd rather just stick a knife in my back and never hear the silence again because, may I reiterate, brain surgery? Not gonna happen. Not to me, not in this lifetime. Not in any lifetime, understand? I have a line, okay? An admittedly very lenient line, but brain surgery crosses-”

“Stiles. We get it, you don't want the surgery.”

Derek took in Stiles’ stubborn stance- feet spread and steady, shoulders back, hands on his hips- and then listened to the thundering beats of his heart, the heaviness behind each breath, every little hitch, and he realized just how much the thought of this was freaking him out.

Unfortunately, however, his dad didn't.

“I know the prospect of the operation is scary, but son, maybe it's for the best.”

Stiles scoffed and rolled his eyes, not so much out of hostility rather than trying to mask his anxiety.

The sheriff pushed on.

“Compared to other brain surgeries, the risk really isn't that big-”

“Dad, I'm not doing it.”

“And all the symptoms that we've- I've been ignoring all these years could go away-”

“I'm not doing it!” Stiles yelled.

Derek rose to his feet and subconsciously moved to Stiles’ side while the silence rang out between the father and son, and his hand found itself resting on a tense shoulder.

“Mr. Stilinski, we're going to go for a short walk, if you don't mind,” Derek said, already tugging Stiles from the room.

Stiles followed easy, mind taken up by surgery statistics, months spent next to a hospital bed as a child, and questions of why Derek was being so formal with his dad, followed by more questions of why he even cared about that when he had just been discussing the possibility of brain surgery, which of course led his mind back to, hello, the possibility of Brain Surgery.

“Breathe, Stiles.”

He let out the air he hadn't even realized he'd been holding in and noticed that there had been a setting change. Derek had led them out the front door and down the driveway, where they were now standing on the sidewalk a few feet from his mailbox, which Stiles noticed had one of the numbers worn away; they should probably fix that-

“Stiles!”

His attention snapped back to Derek, who was standing a lot closer than he had been before, and now both of his hands were pressing heavily down on Stiles’ shoulders instead of just one, and- wow- were his hands oddly warm or was it just chilly outside? Maybe werewolves just ran hotter than humans-

“Focus, Stiles.”

“Yeah, no, I'm totally focused. Fully focused. My focus is… on you. Definitely not the dangers of brain surgery or how warm your hands are.”

Shit. His mind felt like one of those prank peanut cans that Derek had pried the lid off of and now his stupid thoughts were springing out in all directions with no discrimination against topic. This whole conversation had genuinely rattled him. 

“How warm my-”

“It's just, so much has happened in the past, like, 10 years, and things are finally calm, and I don't want to tempt the universe with brain surgery. She's a petty bitch and if I give her a chance to kill me she will take it. That's not even factoring in the financial issues that have been plaguing this household since elementary school, or all the awful things that have happened at hospitals in my lifetime, or the stress that's been on my dad’s shoulders since I've been able to crawl, and I don't want to add to that, you know?”

Derek honestly didn't know what he was expecting, but it probably should have been this. He'd never been much of a talker, even before the fire. His family hadn't needed to say much, preferring to hug things out. Derek had pretended to hate it before he didn't have it anymore; he regretted it every day. Physical comfort was a luxury too easy to be deprived of, and it was all Derek knew how to do.

When he pulled Stiles in, the man’s tension melted almost immediately. He took deep breath after deep breath until he had relaxed completely into Derek’s skin.

“I know it's stupid,” he mumbled into Derek’s shoulder. “We haven't even made an appointment with anyone yet and I'm already losing my shit. I guess I was just really enjoying not having anything even potentially dangerous to worry about.”

A warm hand- really, really warm, dammit- slid up and down his back, wiping away the tightness with each stroke, and Stiles wondered when they had gotten close enough that this wasn't weird- wasn't weird at all- and how he hadn't noticed.

“It's not stupid, Stiles. I promise.”

With a sigh, Stiles muttered, “Thanks,” into the- great smelling- fabric of Derek’s shirt at his nose.

Derek’s own nose nuzzled into Stiles’ hair- and, god, Stiles hoped he smelled even half as good as Derek did- before continuing, “If I was human, I would be constantly worried about all the weird shit that could happen to me for no reason.”

“Um, less thanks? I honestly don't know if that was supposed to be comforting or not.”

Derek’s shoulder shook as he gently snorted, and Stiles laughed in response without meaning to, and then they were both laughing, grabbing tighter for just a moment before Derek was releasing Stiles and holding him at arm's length. 

“It's going to be fine,” he said, voice solid and sure and  _ feeling. _

And as Stiles looked into his eyes- eyes that held so much more than Stiles had ever looked for in them- he knew he believed him.

 

___

One Month Later

 

“That went decently, you know, considering-"

“Considering the fact that they had to put you back in the damn machine for an extra hour and a half because you wouldn't stop moving?” the sheriff interrupted.

“Yeah, that.” Stiles shot his dad a cheeky grin and dodged the swat at his arm with a yelp.

“Hey! Don't push the guy with the neurological disorder- you know the doctor said that a lack of balance is a symptom of Chiari! Who knew, all these years, it wasn't just me being a clutz. Tragic.”

John rolled his eyes at his son’s antics, but smiled at his easy posture. He had truly been worried that even just meeting with the neurologist and getting that first MRI would send his boy into a panic, but he had done surprisingly well.

Aside from the constant wiggling and twitching once inside the machine, but that could very well be due to the events all those months prior, the last time Stiles had been in one of those tubes.

He chose not to bring it up.

When the two got home, Derek was sitting on the front porch. John had taken the initiative to tell the man when they were on their way home. He wasn't stupid, after all, he knew what those kids meant to each other.

“Derek, hey!” Stiles exclaimed as he climbed (fell) out of the car. “What are you doing here?”

Derek looked Stiles over, easing up when he found no clear signs of distress. 

“Your dad told me when you would be home. I figured I'd… see how you were.”

Stiles looked at his dad with calculating eyes, and John said a hasty “Well, I'll just leave you to it" as he walked briskly inside the house, closing the front door with a decisive  _ snick. _

Stiles’ eyes found Derek’s once again and his feet carried him closer of their own accordance until he was standing right in front of the man, looking down at him.

When Derek stood hesitantly, their noses were inches apart.

They simply stared until it got noticeably awkward, which took a surprisingly long time, and Stiles lowered his eyes and cleared his throat.

“So.. why did you come check on me?”

He watched as Derek shrugged half-heartedly, shuffled a foot around, and slipped his hands inside the pockets of his  _ incredibly tight  _ jeans.

God, when did Derek Hale become so… adorable?

When he didn't answer, Stiles pressed a little harder.

“Is it because you care about me?”

Derek scoffed. “Of course I care you about. You're-"

“Pack, yeah, I know. But is that the only reason you care?”

“I think you know the answer to that by now, Stiles.”

Despite his sure words, Derek still looked incredibly nervous.

Well,  _ he  _ didn't. But his eyebrows did, and Stiles had become fluent in Derek’s eyebrows a long time ago.

Derek had no reason to feel nervous, but Stiles didn't know how to tell him that without babbling like an idiot and ruining the atmosphere and-

He didn't want to say it, anyway. He wanted to show it.

When Stiles leaned in, he reached up to hold Derek’s face in his hands, but he didn't kiss him. Not yet. Derek had to be the one to take that step- he just had to be.

However, after a moment of Derek staring at him, eyes wide and anxious, Stiles began to worry that maybe he had gotten this all wrong. Maybe Derek really did only care because Stiles was pack. Maybe Stiles was making a fool of himself and ruining one of the best friendships he had ever had-

His mind went deliciously blank as warm lips engulfed his own, swallowing his doubts and fears, pulling them straight out of his head and burying them.

There weren't fireworks, but Stiles thought that was perhaps for the best. He preferred it this way- calm and comfortable and familiar and-

Quiet.

It was quiet.

Maybe it was a coincidence or he was just distracted, but as Stiles moved his lips against Derek’s, he couldn't hear anything other than the pounding of his own heart and the shallow little breaths Derek was taking through his nose. Stiles found himself grinning into the kiss, and then Derek was smiling, too, until they couldn't even really be kissing anymore because their mouths wouldn't let them.

Stiles found that he didn't care.

And as Derek pulled back, just slightly, just enough to show Stiles his smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and as he and Stiles fell into a hug like it was second nature to them, he thought that maybe Derek didn't care either. Because this was enough.

They were enough.

**Author's Note:**

> ~ A few weeks later, when Stiles and Derek are more comfortable in their new relationship, Stiles interrupts their heated makeout session on the couch of Derek's loft to say, "I hope you know that a side effect of Chiari is having a shit gag reflex, so don't expect much on that front."  
> Derek chokes on his laugh and Stiles finds it so ironically hilarious that he falls off the couch.~
> 
> ___  
> So.  
> If anything seems oddly specific in this fic, it's because, well- hi, my name is Camryn and sometimes I project.  
> Honestly, that's what this is. I've been writing it slowly over the last 7-ish months, only working on it when my own symptoms start to drive me crazy, so if it feels weirdly paced or something, that's probably why.  
> I am by no means a neurologist- all of the medical talk and such in this fic comes strictly from my own experiences. I haven't seen the doctor in a few years and I did exactly zero research for this, so take it with a grain of salt.  
> I haven't posted in a while because of a lack of motivation and energy to write, so sorry about that. Idk if this means I'm back or if it just means I'm disappearing again. Let's hope for the former?  
> Comments definitely make the former more likely, as do kudos. So if you even kind of like me, let me know what you thought <3 (Please don't be too mean; I know it's kind of shit lmao)


End file.
